Roses and Thorns
by Tillandae
Summary: It doesn't necessarily have to fit perfectly. Every relationship has its own edges, its own unique mark. Just like a thorn and its rose.
1. Roses and Thorns

**Author's notes:**

This fic was originally supposed to be just a series of drabbles concerning our couple. However, since the end product is now probably more than 200 words, that idea was shot to death. So from now on, its just gonna be a series of ficlets with no connection from one chap to the next.

Your comments and criticisms are much appreciated. Remember, every author lives from his/her own reviewers.

Enjoy.

After a few minutes, I step out of the house and begin the 'search' for my companion. As to be expected during these times, I find him staring at the roses gracing our bricked walls. I thought wryly to myself, with those minutes I've been gone, he might have even forgotten what drove him there in the first place. Then again, considering his long-term memory and by the severity of the looks aimed at me, maybe not.

"Why are you here?" He growls, words barely heard over the intensity of his eyes.

"I came to say I'm sorry." I can see that he's taken aback. Surprised that I was the one to submit, his anger vanishing in the steps of that sudden apology. "I couldn't stand to wait and watch you get hurt."

The look of surprise is now replaced with a tinge of melancholy. "I can protect myself, you know. I'm a big boy now."

"I know. It's just..." I find myself trailing off, not sure of how I can answer to that.

"Shhh... Let's not repeat what happened at the dining table." He steps closer to me as I remember the mess we'd have to clean up. Scorched walls, metals protruding from floor to ceiling, broken table and finally, the transmutated door.

Then with silent grace he finally closes the distance and holds my hand. We stand, still facing the roses Winry and Al planted, as a thought occurs to me.

"Why do you always end up here after our little fights?"

Silence meets that question, but after a few seconds his gaze lands on mine. "The roses remind me that nothing is ever perfect, I guess. Everything has its stain, a mark that can't be ignored. Look at these roses. In its absolute bloom, nothing compares. However, its thorns mar it, make it more real. Just like you and me. Our own quirks and pasts prevent us from really creating a perfect puzzle. But, no matter how imperfect we are, what we have together is just as beautiful. And that, my dear colonel, is something I'd never give up on."

Somehow, with the glint in his golden eyes, I believe.


	2. Of Fires and Flames

Thanks to the reviews. Really appreciate it .

I hope I don't disappoint you with the second one.

**The loud crashing **of winds on our window reminded me of my sorry state, trying to warm myself in front of the fireplace with just a lukewarm cocoa for company. Four hours since my arrival here at Central and still no chance of the snowstorm letting up. Trust my luck to malfunction just when it's the only thing that could grant me my wish. Wishes, actually; a cozy bed to sleep on, preferably with that smug bastard warming the sheets.

Oh, but wouldn't it just be too out of character for him to, for once, be home early and waiting for my sorry ass to grace his presence? Why in heaven's name do I always end up waiting for him? Is it too much for him to abandon his work for my sake? When can I really say that he is mine and mine alone? Not the people's, but mine? Then as the fire's sounds resonated, I realized how petty those thoughts were.

He's always been there for me. Since I came out of the Gate to the time I gave up trying to restore my own body back. From the very beginning actually. Always provoking me and daring me to do my best. Pushing me when he believes I can go further. Always catching me when I've burned myself out. Always trying to protect me from nightmares. His strength is mine for the taking. His presence always there for me to lean on. His own flames isn't like those of the ones he create. The fires that come from a snap of a finger scalds a person and turns him into ashes. But what he's always saved for me is the kind of fire that gives, never demands.

Another ramming of the windows sends a shiver down my spine. Then words I'd rather not dare speak in front of him escaped my lips. "I miss you." No point denying that.

Minutes after the diminishing fireplace failed to battle the cold, I heard the sound I've been wanting to hear.

"Hey." The person standing in the doorway said in form of greeting. "Did you miss me?" Smug bastard.

But as he molded himself to mine, uniform and all, feelings of discontent seeped away. After I was safely cocooned in his warmth, I would have told anyone willing to hear, as realization struck, that he's already my smug bastard.


End file.
